Table Scraps
by Vixit
Summary: A place for excess ideas to drain. Chapters are separate one-shots.
1. Minnie the Brave

Dumbledore sat up and pounded on his chest. A lemon drop ejected from his wrinkled mouth and bounced across five-hundred year old tabletop varnish, coming to rest not two feet from Professor Flitwick's face.

The diminutive instructor took a step backwards, eying the spit-laden sweet with distaste. "I take it that's a problem?"

The headmaster was ashen-faced. "He has to be there. My instruments, the wards...he just has to be. Where else would he go?"

Flitwick shrugged. "So his letter came back unopened. It's not exactly uncommon. He's probably traveling with his family. We'll send another letter in a week."

Dumbledore slapped his desk. "Petunia wouldn't put Harry at risk like that! She promised me they'd keep him at home as much as possible!" The headmaster rose to the symphony of a thousand popping joints, reached across the mahogany divide, and grasped Ftiwick's hand. "We're checking on him. Right now."

"Albus, my class starts in thirty—"

"Fawkes! Tally Ho!"

Fawkes launched from his perch, and the trio disappeared in a burst of fire and phoenix song.

-oOo-

Arabella Figg ran the hand-held vacuum cleaner across Mr. Claw's back. Mr Claws, a pudgy, gray-haired tabby cat, purred in contentment. Bath time was so much more relaxing ever since Figg had discovered the muggle contraption. No water, no soap. No muss, no fuss. Even the noise was held at bay with a weak silencing charm.

The tableau of contentment shattered like one of her many, many crystal feline figurines. Albus, Filius, and Fawkes appeared next to her in a burst of flame. Several lace doilies caught fire, and Mr. Claws tore from the room in a fit of fur and hissing.

"No! Mr. Claws, come—Albus!" Miss Figg brandished her vacuum at the unwelcome guests. "If I've told you once, I've told you a thousand times! No fire-flashing in my house! Just look at the place!"

Dumbledore shook the dizziness from his head. He gave her a distracted nod, vaulted over the couch, blasted the front door off it's hinges, and sprinted outside.

In the awkward silence that followed, Flitwick dispelled the phoenix fire with a wave of the wand.

"I'm sorry about this, Arabella."

"I should say so!"

Flitwick sheepishly walked to door and repaired it. Figg's glare tracked his every move.

"I don't suppose," he asked, "It would matter if I told you this wasn't my idea?"

The Figg glared, very nearly projecting her thoughts. _Some people. A decade of watch duty and what thanks do you get? Unlawful entry and not so much as a "by your leave". Poor Mr. Claws. And my doilies! Some people... _

Flitwick sighed. "I'll just...I'll go now." He stepped outside, closing the door as quietly as he could.

After a quick Notice-Me-Not charm, the professor jogged down the street to Dumbledore's side. The headmaster was frantically waving his wand at a house, at the ground, even at the sky.

"He's gone."

"He's fine, Albus. They're probably on vacation."

Dumbledore wiggled his wand again. "I can't track him. Merlin's Beard, _I cannot track him!_ Do you know what this means?"

"Well..."

"Somethings gone wrong. Horribly wrong. I can feel it." He whistled for Fawkes. "We have one option."

"I don't want to seem callous, Albus, but my class starts in—"

"Onward, Fawkes! To the Burnt Blackthorne, Scotland!"

"Oh, for—"

Flitwick's protest was wasted air. The trio disappeared for the second time in as many minutes.

-oOo-

Deep breaths, Flitwick reminded himself. Traveling by phoenix was bad enough the first time, but twice in row had his stomach churning.

Albus bent over and pulled the professor to his feet. "Chin up, Filius. Be strong, for Harry's sake."

Flitwick irritably shrugged off the helping hands. "Let's just get on with it."

They were in the middle of a cramped road, one that had more in common with an alleyway than an actual street. A thick layer of litter covered the ground. Two and three story wood houses leaned ominously inward, casting an already dismal scene into perpetual gloom.

"Where are we?" asked Flitwick.

"We're outside a pub in the wizard town of Lunkshore."

Flitwick could count the number of pure European wizarding settlements on both hands and have fingers left over. The name of Lunkshore rang no bells.

"Never heard of it."

Albus' eyes twinkled. "It's not a hot destination, per se."

As if on cue, a portly man stumbled out of a nearby alley, looking as if he'd crawled from a dumpster. He ambled in the educators direction, only to trip. His landing was clumsy—if the dull snap was anything to go by, clumsy enough to break something. The man stared at his hand in surprise, then curled into a fetal position, holding his wrist close. He didn't utter a sound.

Flitwick rushed over and pulled out his wand. The closer he got to the man, the more his nose wrinkled. It was like standing next to an alcoholic garbage heap.

"Here," said Flitwick, "Let me help with that."

The man held his hand even closer. Shrewd eyes peered out from under long, greasy bangs. "Yeh broke me hand," he rasped

"Sorry?"

"Yeh broke it! Yeh better gimme restitution!"

"Restitu—"

"Blimey, would you lookit what happened to ol' Shamus. Fancy-pants done broke his wrist."

Flitwick looked up and saw two more men shamble out of the dark alleyway. One lazily spun a wand through his fingers. The other limped worse than Mad-Eye Moody.

The limper leered at Flitwick. "We'll be needin' a doctor fee for our friend. It's the right thing, gov', helpin' out the poor blighter you gave such a turn."

Flitwick bristled. "Now see here!"

Dumbledore's hand on his shoulder gave the professor pause. The three hooligan's watched the wizened headmaster warily. You didn't get that old in Lunkshore with learning a few tricks.

"Gentlemen," said Dumbledore, "Perhaps we can help one another. A little give and take?"

The limper looked suspicious. "Depends on what yer givin'."

Dumbledore chuckled. "I've the galleons, if you've the knowledge."

Limper and Spinner shared a moment, then nodded. "Talk to me, gov'," said Limper. "What you wanna know?"

"My friend and I are looking for someone. Maybe you've heard of her. Minerva McGonagall."

Spinner's wand slipped from his fingers and flipped into Limper's eye. Neither seemed to notice. The man with a broken wrist surreptitiously downed a potion and began inching away through piles of trash.

Spinner licked his lips and shot nervous glances up and down the street. "You know Minnie?"

Dumbledore thoughtfully stroked his beard. "'War Buddies' is the term, I think. I've some business with her."

Spinner forced a smile and began backing away. He pointed to the pub at Dumbledore's back. "Your a step away. That's her place. The Blackthorne."

"Ah. I knew I was close. Thank you, Mr..."

Spinner continued to back away. His smile became strained. "Lookit the time. Love to chat, gov', but business calls. Upstanding man like yourself un'erstands, don't he?"

"But your pay?"

"Keep it!"

The thugs disappeared faster than mongeese down a gryphon's gullet.

Flitwick shook his head. Just who was this McGonagall?

"And off we go," said Dumbledore. He began carefully picking his way across the street, weaving around a unidentifiable clump of nastiness. Flitwick followed.

"I could have handled them," said Flitwick.

"I never said you couldn't. But those gentlemen weren't looking for a fight, just an easy mark." Dumbledore shot his friend a twinkle-filled glance. "I must say, Filius, you obliged more willingly than I imagined."

Flitwick mentally conceded the point. "Who is this Minerva, anyway?"

"She's a tracker I knew during the war. We shared an adventure or two."

Flitwick hopped over a brown puddle. "You think she can find Harry?"

Dumbledore laid his hand on the pub's door handle. "I know she can."

The door opened and Flitwick was assaulted on all fronts. A rowdy Irish jig played over an even rowdier crowd. Warm arm air filled his nostrils with the smell of woodsmoke, alcohol, and urine.

Dumbledore smiled, gripped Flitwick's hand, and pulled him inside.

"How do we find her?" asked Flitwick, raising his voice over the din.

Dumbledore pushed his way to the bar. "If I know Minerva, we'll not even get through a pint." He sat down on a stool and swatted away a listless, drunken patron. The soused man was trying to drink his beard.

Flitwick frowned. "We can't stay long. I don't want to seem like a broken record, but my class—"

"KEEP YER HANDS TO YERSELF!"

The sound of a hamhock getting clobbered by a sledgehammer could be heard throughout the pub. A man arced over the crowd, blood streaming from a flattened nose.

Dumbledore ducked just in time. The unfortunate man missed the headmaster by inches, bounced off the bar and into a shelf of bottles. More than one voice groaned at the loss of liquid courage. A patron on Dumbledore's left openly wept, dabbing his eyes with the headmaster's prodigiously long facial hair.

Dumbledore sighed. "So much for that pint."

Flitwick watched as a ravening wildebeest—no, he revised, a woman—shoved through the crowd. She held a Scottish claymore in one hand and a bottle of Speyside whiskey in the other. Flitwick pushed his brain into overdrive trying to decipher the words hiding behind her thick Scottish accent.

"We'll show you wha' happens when Minnie the Brave gets unsolicited...solicited...Albus?"

Dumbledore leaned against the bar, heedless of the drink and vomit soaking into his robes. "It's been awhile, Minerva."

McGonagall strode up to the bar, pushed a passed out patron from his stool, and sat down. She clapped Dumbldore on the shoulder. "Albie, me ol' tater! What brings you to Lunkshore?"

"Trouble."

"Hah! What else is new?" She took a long pull from her bottle. "You didn't come all the way to cry on me shoulder, so spill it already."

Dumbledore pulled his wand and cast a privacy charm. The pub's din faded away and McGonagall raised an eyebrow.

"Now you got me attention. It's a job, ain't it?"

"Astute as ever. I need you to find someone for me. It could be nothing, but..."

She nodded. "But nothing could always be something. Who's the mark?"

"Harry Potter."

McGonagall looked back and forth between Dumbledore and Flitwick, then burst into laughter. She tried to slip a drink in between gales of merriment and paid the price. She choked and coughed while Dumbledore patted her back, despite feeble attempts to shoo him away.

Flitwick watched in horror. It all felt entirely too choreographed, as if the pair was dancing to an old tune. It made the hairs on the back of Flitwick's ears stand up, and if there was anything he'd learned from his tournament dueling days, it was never to doubt his external ear hair. A storm was brewing, he was sure of it.

After a mighty cough, Minnie's chuckles died down. With a twist of the wrist, her sword shrunk down to the size of a letter opener, though Flitwick saw no spell cast. She carefully pocketed the weapon and rose unsteadily to her feet.

"Well," she said, "Let's get this train-wreck to a proper start." She turned to a grizzled bartender. "Going on a trip, Fergus. Keep the ol' place from burning down."

Fergus nodded, never looking up from the Pina Colada he was painstakingly constructing.

Flitwick did a double take. A Pina Colada? In this place?

Sure enough, a second look confirmed the drink, right down to the little umbrella and twisty straw. It was served to a blind man missing half his face. A man who pulled the drink closer with a be-hooked hand.

Flitwick wasn't the type to judge a man by his drink, but the professor couldn't look away.

"Oi! Short-stuff! We're moving!" Minnie's voice easily carried over the din.

Flitwick shook his head and hustled over. The trio stepped outside and Dumbledore cast a cleaning charm on his robes and shoes. Minnie smirked.

"You never did like mussing your fancy robes, Albie."

Dumbledore shrugged. "Some things never change. I'm hoping you're one of them."

"Don't you worry your wooly ol' head. I can track a bird over the moor." She reached into her pocket and pulled out her claymore. In a thrice it was back to full size. She spun it lazily and thrust it into the street, effortlessly piercing a flagstone.

"What you got for me?" she asked.

Dumbledore reached into his pocket, then held forth a lock of hair. "This is all you have to work with, I'm afraid. Taken when he was just a baby."

She took the hair and wrapped it around the sword hilt. "Should work. We'll know if it don't right now."

She grasped the handle through the hair and closed her eyes. Dumbledore and Flitwick waited, one patiently, one dubiously.

After three minutes, her eyes fluttered open. "I got a trace," she said. "Faint, but I can work with it. If I don't show up at Hogwarts in a week, get yourself another tracker."

With that ominous declaration, she disappeared.

Flitwick blinked. "That's it?"

Dumbledore sighed in relief, then nodded happily. "That's it. Now we wait."

-oOo-

"I will not pay for some crackpot old fool to teach him magic tricks!" Vernon Dursley leveled his shotgun at the sword-wielding madwoman.

McGonagall stilled as the shotgun came to bear. The man was serious; she could see it in his eyes. Her grip tightened on the claymore resting across her shoulder.

She swung. Not even close enough to hit the muggle's weapon, but tell that to Vernon. He panicked. He pulled the trigger once, twice, three times.

But the gun did not fire.

Vernon looked down in confusion. The problem was immediately apparent. The gun didn't fire because he wasn't pulling the trigger. He was, in fact, pulling a fin.

His shotgun had turned into a tuna—blue-gill, he dumbly noted, and a lively one at that. The fish slipped from his limp fingers and landed with a splat. Everyone watched in silence as it flopped across the hut's dirt floor, out the kicked-in door, and into the turbulent North Atlantic.

Vernon looked at the madwoman, then at his empty hands. He turned to Harry. "BOY! What are you doing! Get our guest a drink!"

McGonagall sheathed her sword. "You learn fast, fat man. I'll take a whiskey to go."

-oOo-

A/N

For the wandless sword transfiguration, I imagined her wand being set into the hilt. Outside of that, not sure where this was going. No real ideas other than hard-drinking, rough-and-tumble McGonagall (which, to be fair, is an attractive idea all on it's own).


	2. By Your Powers Combined

"You shall not harm Harry Potter!"

Harry stared in shock as tendrils of magic curled around Dobby's hands. He could feel power twine through the air, gathering with palpable intensity, before Dobby thrust his hands at Malfoy. Lucius sneered at his former house elf, an expression that changed to shock when he was blown clean off his feet. He landed halfway down the corridor with a weighty thump. He rose quickly, face contorted by fury, twisting otherwise handsome features into an ugly mask.

"Mark my words, Potter," he spat, "Your parents were meddlers too, and someday you will meet the same _sticky_ end." He turned with a swirl of obscenely expensive robes, stalked down the hallway's remainder, slammed open a door, and swept into the castle.

Harry stared at Dobby in amazement. A house elf, a goofy little thing with great big eyes, had sent Lucius Malfoy packing.

"That was brilliant, Dobby!"

Dobby beamed. "Dobby is wanting to do that for a very long time, and he is always happy to helps the Great Mr. Harry Potter!"

Harry grinned. "It was still brilliant. And just call me Harry. You'll have to give me a little more time to grow into anything great."

Dobby frowned. "If Mr. Harry is saying so, but Dobby still says he's being a Great Wizard. Dobby can _see_ it." He titled his head and goggled at Harry. His eyes bulged even more than usual.

Harry laughed. "Give me time."

"Hmph. Even if Mr. Harry is not seeing how great he is, Dobby is still happy to be his elf."

"My elf?"

Dobby nodded.

"When did that happen?"

Dobby patted Harry's knee. "Dobby explains very simple-like. When a master is letting a house elf go, he is giving that house elf clothes, yes?"

"So?"

"And when two masters is transferring a house elf betweens them, old master is giving the elf clothes from the new master."

"You mean...when I slipped my sock into the book, and he gave the book to you..."

Dobby nodded happily. "A perfect transfer."

Harry took in his little friend's wide smile and quivering ears. "And you're okay with it?"

Dobby's ears quivered faster, and he bounced on his heels. "Dobby is getting to work for the gr—for Mr. Harry. Dobby is never being happier!"

-oOo-

What was left of the school year shot by. Harry didn't see much of Dobby during this time, although his robes seemed extra clean, and his trunk extra polished. Soon he was on the Hogwarts Express, bound for home.

As the train pulled into Kings Cross Station, Harry, Hermione, and Ron stood by the doors, ready to disembark.

"If those muggles give you trouble again," said Ron, "Just send a letter, yeah? Fred and George and me will come get you, no problem."

"And if you can't send Hedwig," said Hermione, "Just call me while they're out. I'll send a message to Ron."

Harry smiled. "Guys! I'll be okay."

The train slowed. It rocked to a stop with a short squeal. The doors opened.

"Well, guess I'll see you—"

"You're blocking the way!"

Draco Malfoy shoved past the three, jostling Harry in particular.

"Oy!" said Ron, "Manners don't cost anything, Malfoy!"

Draco never stopped moving. "It's a good thing, isn't it, Weasly? You'd never afford them, otherwise."

Harry didn't even have to hold Ron back. Draco was instantly swallowed by the throng of students and parents. The trio disembarked, going with the flow.

"Don't let him get to you," said Harry.

Ron scowled. "I'm not. He doesn't. The git."

"There's your mum," said Hermione.

Ron turned. Sure enough, there was Molly Weasley, parting the crowd like swimmer, head swiveling in a constant search pattern.

"I better go," said Ron, "Before she starts hollering. Remember to write if you have to, Harry."

Harry and Hermione said their goodbyes to the redhead and made their way through the crowd. They pushed through the barrier and into muggle London, breathing a sigh of relief at the lack of crowds.

"There's my parents," said Hermione. She pointed to the left.

Harry looked to the right. "And there's Vernon."

She gave him a quick hug. "Take your own advice, Harry. Don't let them get to you."

They parted separate ways, and Harry fought the blush that had risen on his cheeks. The Dursleys never hugged him, and lately it seemed like he had to hold himself back from doing something stupid or dangerous in front of Hermione, just on the off chance he might wrangle a hug from her.

"Wipe that silly grin off your face, boy!" said Uncle Vernon. "And hurry up, they're waiting in the car."

Harry sighed. Home again, home again.

The car ride was business as usual. Vernon always took Petunia and Dursley with him to pick up Harry. The three of them would chat while Harry stared out the window. He ignored them, and they ignore him. It was a well-oiled system.

When Vernon finally pulled onto their street, the man decided to throw a wrench in those well-oiled works. "So boy, who was that tart hanging off you?"

"She's just a friend," said Harry.

"Looked like a tart to me, didn't it Dudley?"

Dudley snickered.

In case he was tempted to do something he might regret, Harry put his hands in his pockets. He frowned when his fingers brushed something. A galleon, by the feel of it. How...

He remembered Draco jostling him at the station, but that didn't make sense. Why would the little snot give him money?

"The bloody—!"

Vernon swore, Petunia gasped, and Dudley paused his snickering. Harry looked up and through the car's front windshield.

A man, wearing dark robes and a mask, stood unmoving in the middle of Vernon's driveway.

"It's a freak! A bloody freak in my neighborhood! Boy, if you've anything to this with this, I'll—"

Harry watched the masked man level a wand at the car, and his world was suddenly filled with screams, fire, and screeching metal.

-oOo-

"A sticky end, as promised."

Lucius Malfoy sauntered up to the smoldering wreckage. He needed his galleon back before he left. Ministry Aurors might be incompetent, but even they could trace the tracking spell back to his wand.

A few well-placed cutting spells, then he levitated away pieces of twisted metal. His eyes narrowed in suspicion. The boy was gone. There was the whale-man with his wife and son, but no sign of Potter.

Malfoy hissed in frustration. He stabbed the air with his wand. "Accio galleon!" A small gold coin flew into his hand, and he glared at it. How? He saw the boy get into the car, so how...

Bah! No doubt some protection of Dumbledore's, the thrice cursed old man.

Malfoy turned to regard the house behind him. Potter's house. He grinned nastily and raised his wand. As long as he was here, he might as well leave a parting gift.

By the time authorities (both magical and muggle) arrived on the scene, the Dursley's house matched their car.

-oOo-

"Is he being dead?"

"Don't says that! The Great Mr. Harry Potter is living! Dobby popped him away!"

"You shouldn't be popping wizards. They gets mad if you touch them."

"Not the Great Harry! He shakes Dobby's hand and is nice and says thank-you to Dobby!"

A swell of awed, disbelieving voices filled the air, and Harry winced. He had a splitting headache and hurt all over. His neck gave a particularly bad twinge.

"He's awaking!"

"Mr Harry Potter sir!"

Harry sat up and put a hand to his head. What had happened?

Someone—an elf, he realized—pushed a cup into his hand. Harry looked around. He was on a grassy knoll, overlooking a small town. A clear blue sky was overhead, and wind pulled at his messy hair.

All around him were house elves. Some with clothes, some without. They were all watching him. Some curiously, some with doubt, and others in awe. Dobby was by his side.

"Drink," said Dobby, "So yours head can stop hurting."

Harry looked down at his cup, noted the pale blue color, and knocked it back. A cool feeling started at his scalp and worked down to his toes, wiping away any pain as it quickly coursed through his system.

He rolled his head around, rubbed his neck tentatively, and handed the cup back. "Thanks, Dobby. Where are we?"

Murmurs broke out among the elves.

"He _is_ being nice!"

"Big deals. Zippy's mistress says thank-you's too, sometimes."

"But Zippy's master is not being a Great Witch, is she?"

Harry tried to filter out the chatter, and focused on Dobby. "What happened? I remember being in the car..." his eyes widened, "The wizard! The spell! How—"

"Dobby was popping you away just in time."

"Popping? You mean apparating?"

"Wizards is apparating. Elves is popping."

"But how did you know I was in trouble?"

"Dobby was feeling Mr. Harry being upset at something, so Dobby was waiting to be called. Then Mr. Harry was hurting, so Dobby pops in and takes him away."

A small elf spoke up. "Dobby was being very fast. Kippy thinks she's not being as fast."

The elves nodded. Dobby had shown excellent qualities that day. Speed, of course, but more importantly, attentiveness to a master's condition.

"Dobby did good," said an older elf with a teakettle hat, "He saves his master and a Great wizard."

Another rod of nods followed the statement, and Harry groaned. "Just Harry, please. I know Dobby says I'm great, but—"

"But you _is_ being great," said a particularly young elf, "Isn't you?"

"No!" protested Harry. "I'm turning thirteen in a month, but I'm still just a kid! Dobby could wipe the floor with me!"

Dobby looked horrified.

The older, hatted elf waved a dismissive hand. "Age isn't having anything to do with being a Great wizard."

"I'm telling you, I'm not—"

The old elf glared. "You is!"

The house elves gasped. Rippy was an elder elf, and he was well-known for being crabby, but to speak at a wizard with that tone...and a Great Wizard, at that! It was pushing decorum to the limit.

Harry was confused and annoyed. "Just tell me why, then. What makes me so great?"

The old elf shrugged. "You just is."

Dobby tugged at Harry sleeve. "Dobby explains, Mr. Harry. Ever since the Old Days, we elves is having categories for wizards and witches. There's being three kinds: Low wizards, Middle wizards, and Great wizards."

Harry blinked. "Oh, I thought...alright, in that case, what makes a Great wizard so great?"

"They is having bigger magic cores."

"You can see my magical core?"

Dobby nodded, along with every other elf.

"And it's bigger than normal?"

The elves nodded harder. "It the biggest one we is seeing in a long time," said Dobby.

"Huh. Bigger than McGonagall's?"

Dobby nodded.

"Flitwick?"

Nod.

"Dumbledore?" He laughed.

And Dobby nodded.

Harry's laugh turned into a cough. "What! No way! Dumbledore's way stronger than me!"

"Dumblydore is having time to get old and fill up his magic core," explained Dobby, "Mr. Harry's core is bigger, but very empty. You needs to get older for it to fill with magics."

The old elf, Rippy, cut in. "It's not mattering how old the Great Mr. Harry Potter is getting, he's never going to gets old enough to fill his core. It's too big to fill up, even if he's living a thousand thousand years."

Dobby bristled. "Not true! There's other ways to fill it, and then Mr. Harry can be strong and not be dying like the Dursley peoples!"

Harry froze. "What?"

Dobby turned and looked up at him with wide, wet eyes. "Dobby won't be letting Mr. Harry be killified by bad wizards."

"They're dead? Did you say the Dursley's are dead?"

Dobby nodded sadly. "And Mr. Harry's house was burned."

Harry sat on the grassy knoll, stared down at the town below, and digested this news. No family, and no home. He didn't know quite what to feel, but was sure he was supposed to feel more than he did.

It was...sad, he supposed, but in a strangely detached way. He had barely known the Dursley's, really. He knew that Uncle Vernon was a mean man, arrogant and spiteful. He knew Dudley took every opportunity to bruise him up. And he knew that Petunia had hated him like she hated his mum and dad: with relish.

Of the house, he mostly remembered his cupboard. Dudley's smallest bedroom had been a nice change, but it was the cupboard that stood out in his mind. Sometimes, when he closed his eyes, he could imagine being back inside it. Back in the dark and the spiders and dust. It had been his world growing up, and he couldn't help but feel a weight lift from his heart, knowing it was gone.

Dobby laid a hand on Harry's shoulder. "They wasn't nice peoples."

"No," said Harry, "They weren't. But they didn't deserve to die."

"But they did, and it's not being your fault. It's being the bad wizards fault."

Harry continued to watch the town below, and Dobby burst into tears. "Dobby is sorry! Dobby isn't being fast enough to save Mr. Harry's family! Bad Dobby!" He slapped himself in the face, hard, and made to repeat the punishment.

Harry jumped at Dobby's viciousness. He grabbed the elf's hand. "Dobby, don't! Don't hurt yourself like that."

"But Dobby—"

"It's not your fault." Harry slowly released Dobby's hand. "It's the bad wizard's, remember?"

Dobby thought about it, then latched onto to Harry's arm. New tears soaked through the sleeve. "Mr. Harry is too nice to slow Dobby!"

Rippy watched Harry awkwardly console Dobby, then stepped forward. "Great Mr. Harry Potter?" he asked.

Harry patted Dobby on the back a final time, then looked up. "Yes?" he asked.

Rippy seemed to hesitate, then knelt down. "Rippy is offering his house-service, if the Great Harry would have him."

"But I don't have a house. Not anymore, anyway."

Rippy shrugged. "I waits for you to find a new house. I is getting old and could be using some house magic to help with aches and pains, if Mr. Great Harry is not minding."

The crowd of elves looked embarrassed. This was just the reason why Rippy didn't have a master. He lacked tact. Every elf was capable of drawing some small strength from a master's house, but it was usually only done by very old elves, and solely to help them accomplish their daily duties. Rippy made it sound like he wanted that power for personal reasons.

"No!" exclaimed Dobby.

Rippy glared. "It's not Dobby's choice. It's being Great Mr. Harry—"

"No!" repeated Dobby. "Mr. Harry is not needing house-service. He is in great danger. His house is already gone. He is already starting the Way."

Rippy looked skeptical. "You can't be meaning—"

"Dobby is. No one is protecting Mr. Harry from bad wizards, so we elves must be doing it ourselves."

The gathered elves quieted. Rippy squinted at Harry. "Wizards don't wander anymore," said the elderly elf.

"He will!" said Dobby. He turned and pointed at Harry. "Are you being in danger, Mr. Harry?"

Harry shrugged. "I've always been in danger, seems like."

Dobby scowled. "You is not taking this seriously! You was almost dying today, Harry Potter! Your Dursleys is dead! Your house is burned!"

Harry blinked at Dobby's reprimanding tone. True, he'd almost died today, but he'd almost died lots of times. Harry laid back, closed his eyes, and thought.

The troll last year was a close call, he'd admit. If Ron hadn't managed the levitating spell—for the first time, no less—that troll's club would have redecorated the bathroom with a fine layer of Harry. Not to mention coming face to face with Voldemort. In retrospect, surviving the Dark Lord felt like a fluke. If Quirrell had been quicker in the forest, or taken him seriously from the beginning in the mirror chamber...

This year had been even worse, and not just for him. It was a close call for Hermione to get petrified instead of killed outright. Then the spider episode with Ron. The Chamber too, with Ginny and the basilisk. The youngest Weasley barely came out that alive, and if it hadn't been for Fawkes' tears...

It was remarkable, really, that no one had died before now. It was just the Dursley's bad luck to bite it first.

Harry recalled the moment earlier that day. He saw the wizard in his mind's eye, leveling a wand at Vernon's car. It felt...different, somehow, and he soon realized why. He was used to some build up. Like Quirrell's pre-game chatter, or the basilisk's term-long reign of terror. This wizard was a bolt from the blue, and the more Harry thought about it, the more that suddenness scared him. How was he supposed to stop an attack like that from happening? What about next time? What if Ron was there when it happened? Or Hermione?

Harry swallowed. Somehow, it felt like that wizard had tipped a delicate balance. Like something had been set into motion. Whatever it was, Harry realized he was painfully unprepared to face it. All those hours playing Gobstones in the common room felt a little foolish.

He sat up and looked Dobby in the eye. "You're right. I'll be more serious about it." He pushed away a sudden thought, a vision of Hermione's body in the scorched, blasted wreckage of Vernon's car.

Dobby's scowl softened. "It's being okay, Mr. Harry. Dobby has a plan. Firsts, how much is you knowing about elf bonds?"

Harry shrugged. "Not much. Sorry"

"Dobby explains. When elves is bonding with a wizard, they is having to give that wizard's house some magic. This is helping them to keep the house clean and strong and orderlies. But there's being another way. An old way. When a wizard isn't having a home for elves to be giving magic to, the wizard gets the magics instead."

Harry blinked. "Your saying...if I bonded with an elf right now, since I don't have a house, I'd get some extra magic?"

Dobby nodded. "The bond-magic would be filling your core. You could be using it as long as the elves is bonded with you, or until you finds a home."

"How many elves are we talking about, here? There has to be a limit, right?"

"The bigger your core is, the more elf-bonds you can has."

_Bigger than Dumbledore_, Harry thought. "What do the elves get out of this? I though you guys loved to clean and stuff. Wouldn't they get bored?"

"You is a Great Wizard, and now you is a Wanderer. That is being enough. Elves believe Wanderers only come when the world is not being right." Dobby's ears drooped. "And it's not being right, is it Mr. Harry? Elves is hurting, magic creatures is hurting, wizards is hurting, and every day it's is getting a little worse."

Rippy stepped forward. "Elves will help you, Great Mr. Harry, because Wanderers are for settings things right. They will help because it's being the Old Way."

"What about a home?" asked Harry. "You said I could the magic until I found a home? Where will I live? What happens if I find one?"

"Elves can make places to sleep," said Dobby, "But if you finds a home, the bonds will break, and the magic goes back to the elves who give it."

Again, the thought of Hermione's body crushed under a smoldering car rose up, and Harry squashed it down. He took a deep breath. "How," he asked, "Do I make the bonds?"

The gathered elves began chattering excitedly. Rippy quieted them with a glare, then turned back to Harry. "It's being very simple-like. First you puts your hand flat on the ground."

Harry did so. "Like this?"

Ribby nodded. "Now you says the Wander Plea. Keep your hand to the ground, and says a Great wizard and a Wanderer is wanting elf-bonds."

Harry cleared his throat. "Er, this is Harry Potter. I'm..."

Dobby nodded encouragingly.

Harry sighed. "...a Great Wizard, apparently. Oh, and a Wanderer. I'm looking for elf-bonds, if anyone wants to." He looked at Dobby. "How long do I have to keep my hand—"

Harry paused. His hand was getting warm. No, scratch that, he thought. It was hot, and getting hotter. He grit his teeth, but the heat suddenly spiked to an unbearable level. He frantically tried to pull his hand off the ground, but it wouldn't budge.

He took a measure of grim pride that he didn't scream before passing out.

-oOo-

"..._and a Wanderer. I'm looking for elf-bonds, if anyone wants to."_

_ …_

"_Did you hears that?"_

_ "I hears it."_

_ "Me too! Chippy hears it too!"_

"_That was a Great Wizard."_

"_Quippy is always missing the points. That was a Wanderer, silly." _

_ "A Wanderer is come!" _

_ "All you's can be earth-talking all day. A Great Wanderer is calling, and I is answering."_

_ "Stippy is not having a master. Stippy is answering too."_

_ "I answers!"_

_ "Me too!"_

_ "And me!"_

-oOo-

When Harry regained consciousness, he immediately doubled up in pain. "You...didn't say it would hurt." He groaned into the grass.

Dobby rushed to Harry's side. "Mr Harry? What's wrong?"

Rippy hurried over. "Stop being panicked. Look! His core is filling too fast. He's not being used to so much magics coming in at once."

Dobby looked, and saw that Harry's core was indeed filling too fast. It looked painful, like a balloon being filled from a fire hydrant. How many elves had answered the Wander Plea, for it to be filling so rapidly?

"He needs to be casting wizard spells," said Rippy, "To lessen the pressures."

Dobby nodded, grabbed Harry's arm, and popped away.

-oOo-

Harry thought Voldemort's shade ripping through him had been painful. He'd thought the basilisk venom was painful. Now he filed them under "Old Pain". And Old Pain paled in comparison to this new stuff.

He became dimly aware that it was hot, and not just his hand. It felt like he'd been dumped on a stove top. A sandy stove top. He twitched as another painful spasm passed through, and found it rather hard to care.

Now someone was shaking his shoulder. Couldn't they let him be miserable in peace? He forced his eyes open and saw Dobby. The elf was saying something.

"...It will helps with the pain. Does Mr. Harry understand?"

_That _got his attention.

"Waz'zat?" he slurred.

"You needs to cast spells!"

Oh. Why didn't anyone tell him sooner? Harry raised an arm, saw the lack of wand, and gave a pitiful moan. Then Dobby was there, placing holly and phoenix into his hand. Harry closed his eyes, rested his forehead on the hot sand, and muttered the first spell that came to mind.

"Expelliarmus."

The pain lessened somewhat. It was a drop in the bucket, but it was still something. He cast another spell.

"Flipendo."

Again the pain lessened, and he began casting in earnest, muttering non-stop into the sand.

"Impedimentia. Locomotor Mortis. Petrificus Totalus. Alohomora. Rictusempra."

He kept it up, going through every spell he could think of, until he finally breathed a sigh of relief. There was still a distinctly uncomfortable feeling inside, but it was leagues away from the agony before.

He felt Dobby's hand on his shoulder, turned his head to the side, and gave the elf a weak smile. "Next time, how about a warning?"

Dobby didn't answer. He was staring in the direction Harry had been casting.

With a groan, Harry pushed himself to his knees, then shook the sand from his bangs. "What's the matter?" He asked, following Dobby's line of sight.

His jaw dropped.

The desert was a surrealist painting. Big patches of sand floated motionless in the air. Trenches the length of football fields were gouged in the landscape. Swamps of mud over there. Swathes of glass over here. A two-story cactus loomed in the distance.

"Did I do that?" Harry asked.

Dobby nodded, bulbous eyes fixed on the strange sight.

Harry rose. He squinted through the desert sun and pointed his wand at the giant cactus. It must have been hit with an engorgio, he thought. He couldn't leave something like that lying around for muggles to find.

"Incendio."

A laser beam—that's all he could compare it to—lanced from his wand tip. It extended to a sustained length of fifty meters in the blink of an eye, effortlessly piercing the cactus. A wisp of smokr rose from the tiny point of entry.

Harry's hand jerked in shock, and the quick back and forth motion was perfectly tracked, as though he held a laser pointer. The beam sliced through the cactus with ease, and it toppled with a resounding crash, kicking up a great plume of sand.

"F-finite Incantatem."

The beam flickered and died out. Harry braced himself for the fatigue, but it didn't come. A spell like that should have left him on the ground gasping for breath. He waited some more, just to be on the safe side, but felt no different than usual.

His brow furrowed in confusion, and he raised his wand again. "Incendio."

The laser-like beam of heat returned, and he swept his arm in a wide arc, directing the spell at the desert floor. Bubbling glass was left cooling in it's wake.

Surely, if it was that hot...

Harry raised his wand-arm level with the ground, then closed his eyes, trying to feel some sort of drain on his magic. The spell must have been—_had_ to have been—drawing enormous amounts power, but no matter how much he focused, he couldn't detect anything. No drain. No fatigue. Just the opposite, really. He felt like he could keep the spell running forever.

"Finite Incantatem."

The beam again faded from sight. He raised a hand to his forehead and wiped away sweat that had nothing to do with his spellcasting. He turned to face away from the relentless desert sun.

"How am I supposed to control this?" he asked.

"You should be using the elf way."

Harry looked down and saw Dobby nodding sagely. "You don't be needing wizard wands anymore," said Dobby. "They is amplifying your magics too much."

"Amplifying?"

"Wizards has wands for making their magics bigger and stronger. Mr Harry isn't needing to make his magics stronger, he is being plenty strong all by himself now. He should be trying the elf ways of magics."

"And what way is that?"

"With hands." Dobby snapped a finger and some sand floated up, coalescing into a sphere.

"Do I just..." He snapped his fingers, imagining a ball of sand similar to Dobby's. A sandy sphere had instantly formed above his palm.

Dobby clapped. "You has it!"

Harry pulled his hand back in surprise, watching in wonder as the ball of sand dissolved. "I just...all I did was imagine it!"

"All magics is happening in here first." Dobby tapped his head. "But most wizards is not having enough magic to do exactly what they is thinking, so they picks a spell closest to what they wants."

Harry nodded dumbly and turned back to the felled cactus. It was like a green beached whale, with thorns the size of harpoons. He still had to do something about that.

He pocketed his wand and raised a hand, making a gun-shape with it. He closed his eyes and imagined the cactus blowing up, like a car in an action movie. He snapped his thumb down, mimicking the hammer on a gun.

"Bang."

The cactus exploded in a gout of flames, showering the area with chunks of half-burnt, gelatinous plant matter.

Harry smiled, a primal reaction for any boy seeing an explosion. It was true. He couldn't believe it, but it was true. All he had to do was concentrate on what he wanted to happen.

"Dobby?"

"Yes?"

"Is there any way I could thank the elves who answered?"

This is what set him apart, thought Dobby. Harry had power now, _real_ power, and his first thought was to thank the house elves who answered the Plea.

"You can be talking with your elves through the earth," said Dobby, "Like you was doing during the Wander Plea."

Harry knelt down, buried his hand in the sand, and closed his eyes.

_Thank you_, he thought, _All of you_.

An answer tickled the back of his mind. Feelings of excitement and approval washed through him as it formed.

_Does your best, Great Wanderer._

Harry pulled his hand from the sand and shook the hot grains from beneath his fingernails. He rose and knocked the sand from his pants.

"Come on Dobby, let's get out here." He reached down and took Dobby's hand.

Harry closed his eyes and thought of the Leaky Cauldron, imagining it's exterior. Grimy, smeared windows. A peeling front door with a rusty sign gently swinging above.

"Beam me up, Scotty."

Boy and elf vanished without a sound..

-oOo-

Lucius sipped his wine. A magically preserved vintage from 1709, called Golden Dew of the Dragon's Breath. Some considered it the finest drink money could buy.

Lucius thought it tasted like crap.

He glared at his glass and thought of Harry Potter. The boy's narrow escape gnawed at his mind and soured his drink.

And now there was a knock at his study door, just when he wanted to brood in peace. "Come in," he growled. If it was Draco coming to whine about a raise of allowance...

A cloaked and hooded figure swept into the room. Lucius stayed seated, but his hand blurred, drawing a wand. A hex left his lips, one that was blocked.

"Petrificus Totalus," said the cloaked figure.

The spell hit Lucius in the chest. The mystery man sat, brushed some non-existent dust from his robes, and lowered his hood.

"You always were a hasty one, Lucius."

It was Rookwood. Augustus Rookwood, Death Eater and ex-Unspeakable. Lucius' eyes would have widened considerably, had they been able. The last one anyone had heard, Rookwood was rotting in Azkaban.

A wave of the wand, and Lucius' was able to move, though Rookwood's wand stayed on him.

"Relax, Lucius. I'm here on business."

Lucius scowled at his spilled drink and scourgified the stains from his nundu-skin rug. "No one saw you come?"

Rookwood looked insulted.

"Fine," said Lucius, "What was so bloody important you had to hack my wards in the middle of the night?"

"It's time."

Lucius tensed and leaned forward. "You mean..."

"That's right, old friend. I've already spoken with our old compatriots. We're all in agreement."

"Why now? What's changed?"

"I was in the Department of Mysteries earlier today."

Lucius raised an eyebrow. Access to that department shouldn't have been possible for a convict.

"I learned something unnerving," continued Rookwood. "The Unspeakables recorded a magical spike somewhere in the Gobi Desert this afternoon. It was off the scale."

"Completely?"

"When I say off the scale..."

"You broke in to my house to report a spike? It was probably a Ley Line acting up."

"You're wrong. Whatever caused that spike is here."

"What do you mean, here?"

"I mean _here_. In England. Right now. This was no natural spike. It was a wizard."

Lucius' breath caught. "Ridiculous. No single wizard can perform magic of that magnitude."

"This one did. And whoever it is caught our Lord's attention."

Lucius paled. "Our Lord lives?"

"Did you ever doubt it? Faith, Lucius. He's been back for some time, and he's ordered a gathering."

"When?"

"Tonight. Inner Circle only. Tonight we will bring our Lord back, even greater than before." Rookwood rose and walked to the door. "He speaks of a diary he left in your possession. Bring it, and arrive at Harlington Cemetery on the stroke of midnight."

Rookwood opened the door, and Lucius spoke, unable to quench his curiosity. "What is he planning?"

"War, of course. Our Lord aims to finish things, and he is most curious about this wizard of the desert

-oOo-

A/N

Tossed in the scraps folder because I couldn't think of how to make things challenging enough for Harry. Had one idea kicking around about how "home is where the heart is". Could use that angle to somehow justify Harry not being able to spend any amount of time near Hermione (or love interest X).

Thought about playing with the "superman syndrome". Harry has close to unlimited power and takes on a proportional moral burden. He can't save everyone, but that doesn't stop him from trying.


	3. House Cagliostro

Harry tromped up the stairs towards Privett Drive's smallest bedroom. He mentally reviewed Vernon's instructions. His orders boiled down to two things: stay quiet, and stay upstairs. His Uncle hoped to close a business transaction with some prospective clients that evening, and didn't want his nephew's "freakishness" to sour the deal.

Harry took it all in stride. He was used to such banishment whenever someone came to visit. As he opened the bedroom door, his nose wrinkled. Was that cigarette smoke?

A voice, an impossibly high-pitched Brooklyn accent, sounded in the seemingly empty room.

"Harry Potter, eh?"

Harry's head snapped towards the voice. There. A cigarette was floating above his bed. Harry shifted his weight, ready to throw himself backwards and out of the room.

"Who is it?"

The cigarette floated to the bed's edge, then dropped a foot. Something thudded on the floor.

"Cool customer, eh? I like that, kid."

A finger snap echoed in the sparsely furnished room. Harry tensed as his mystery guest shimmered into the visible spectrum. First to fade in were tiny shoes; black and highly polished, with hard heels. Miniature pin-striped slacks were next, then the matching suit and vest. Harry bit his tongue as a face came into view.

It was like a Halloween mask. Dark green skin was pulled back in a grin, revealing rows of sharp, yellowed teeth. Bulbous eyes sat above an overly long nose, with equally elongated ears tucked under the brim of a trilby fedora.

Harry relaxed by a fraction. The...thing only stood two feet high. He felt he could handle it if things got rough.

"Who are you?"

The creature flicked ash onto the floor and leaned against the bed. "Name's Dobby. Dobby the House Elf. Close the door will ya? The drafts dryin' out my eyeballs."

Harry hesitated, then shut the door and leaned against it. He didn't lock it. "Who are you?" he asked, trying to make his voice lower and gruffer.

"Straight to business, eh? I can respect that. You want it straight, then I'll give it to you straight: Don't go to Hogwarts this year."

Harry frowned. "What are you on about? Of course I'm going back."

"Trust me, kid. You don't wanna do that."

"You think I want to stay here for a whole year?" Harry gestured at the dusty room, with it's cheap, half-broken furniture. "Hogwarts is home to me."

Dobby felt the wards around Privett Drive tremble at that declaration. Now, he thought, isn't that interesting?

"I hear you, kid. Believe me, I hear you. All the same, Hogwarts is gonna get messy this year."

"Messy?"

"Lemme put it this way. Last year—you know, the one with you almost dying an all—that year'll be looking pretty good after this one."

Harry swallowed. "What's going to happen?"

"No details, but looks like somebody's gonna get whacked. A whole lot a somebodies."

"I-I have to tell someone—"

"Tell 'em what? Some house elf popped in and told you bodies were gonna drop? Give it a break, kid."

"What do you want?" Harry snapped. "Want me to run and hide?" He crossed his arms and glared.

Dobby sighed. He dropped his cigarette and stamped it out. "Idealist, huh?" He took in the stubborn set of Harry's jaw, noted his air of finality. He's serious, thought Dobby. Did the kid even hear me? Either he's not scared to die...or he's just that stupid.

Dobby fingered the relic in his pocket and came to an abrupt decision. "C'mere, kid. I wanna see something."

Harry stomped over. Worry of things to come washed away any wariness he held towards the house-invading elf.

Dobby held out a ring. "Here, kid. Tell me how this fits."

Harry hesitated. "Why? What is it?"

"You need help, don't ya?"

Harry blinked. Did he? Last year, Ron and and Hermione had helped him. At the time it seemed like enough, but Harry couldn't deny the twisting sense of unease he felt. If what Dobby said was true, he'd need all the help he could get.

Harry folded his arms. "Maybe."

Dobby chuckled. "Careful, kid. Tough is fine. Too tough can back you into a corner." He tossed the ring into the air, watching it glint as it came down into his palm. "This is the Cagliostro Family Ring. You put it on, pass the test, and bam, you got help."

"What kind of help?"

Dobby offered the ring. "You'd be the Head of House Cagliostro, for starters."

Harry took the ring. It wasn't just Dobby's warning, he realized, that twisted his insides uneasily. The headmaster had him spooked with talk of Voldemort. What would happen if _he_ came back yet again? Suddenly decided, Harry thrust the ring onto his finger.

And he dropped to the floor.

"What is this?" he gasped. He tried to move, and found he could not. It felt like he weighed a thousand pounds.

"Test time, kid. There's a reason Cagliostro's a dead line. Nobody could pass the ring."

Harry felt himself growing detached, like when he'd faced Quirrell the year before. He was angry, certainly, but strangely detached, as if he bore witness and understood the anger of a stranger, rather than his own.

"What do I do?" he asked.

He's got some steel, this one, thought Dobby. "You gotta get up," said the elf, "And magic won't help. The ring's got a kind of sentience, see? It's willful and wild, and the Head of Cagliostro's gotta be one better."

Harry did see. He felt the ring, not just on his finger, but brushing against his mind. He tried to move his legs, but there was the ring, showing him the time Dudley's gang caught him after school. Because he was too slow. Because his legs were to weak to run ahead, just as they were too weak to move now.

It doesn't matter, thought Harry, pushing away the thoughts shown. He tried to move his arms, but again there was the ring, dredging up his uncle. Vernon had his arms pinned, stopping him from reaching the mysterious letters addressed to the cupboard under the stairs.

It doesn't matter, thought Harry. I'm not the same as then. I have magic now. Everything's different.

The ring responded, and Harry remembered his first charms class. How long it took him to levitate a single feather. How easy it was for Hermione.

Harry grit his teeth. It didn't matter! Harry thought of Quirrell, of throwing himself upon the man. He remembered the searing heat in his hands, as if the flesh was charring and falling from his bones. Still he held them to Quirrell's face, and continued to hold them until the world went black.

The ring wavered.

Harry pressed onward. The body was a vessel, he realized, and magic was an instrument. Both were of little inherent consequence. The true key was will. One could have all the strength in the world, but without the will to act, it was nothing.

Just as the ring was nothing.

Dobby watched as Harry slowly stood. The elf could feel his blood pounding. At last, he thought. At long last.

Harry opened his eyes, and was surprised to be standing. He looked down and saw Dobby lighting another cigarette.

"So you did it, eh?" asked Dobby.

Harry sat heavily on the bed. He examined the ring—his ring—solid gold, with a simple rose signet set against red enamel. It seemed too plain, knowing the trial it held.

"You said I'd get help," Harry reminded him, "If I passed."

Dobby tipped his hat. "And here I am."

Harry blinked. "...Are you kidding? You're it? What about the Cagliostro Family?"

"About that. The Family's gonna need some new members." Dobby scratched his chin thoughtfully. "You got any friends? Friends make good blood brothers."

Harry rubbed his eyes. "How much help do I have, right now? How many Cagliostro's are left?"

"Counting me and you? Two."

Harry groaned.

"Don't sweat it, boss. You got the Dob."


	4. His Eyes Gently Twinkled

A/N: Two unrelated one-shots about everyone's favorite headmaster.

* * *

Griping

Dumbledore's fireplace flared, and the headmaster looked up from his paperwork. Who, he wondered, could be calling at such an hour? He watched as the familiar shape of a wide-brim pointed hat formed from the flames.

"Gandalf the Grey," said Dumbledore evenly.

"It's _White_ now, not Grey," Gandalf coldly corrected.

The two wizards, each arguably the most powerful spell-caster of their dimension, gravely stared at one another. The air crackled with an indefinable flux of energy; the meeting of two immovable spirits.

Dumbledore's shoulders twitched, and he steadied them through sheer force of will. Just a little longer, he thought, watching Gandalf's trembling shoulders. A burst of air sputtered through tightly clenched lips, and he redoubled his efforts. Hold it, he thought. Hold it...

The two wizards' shoulders were hitching up and down like corks on a wave. An alarming noise was escaping from behind Gandalf's locked teeth.

Finally, neither could hold out any longer. As one, the two wizards burst out laughing.

Dumbledore dabbed away tears of mirth with the tip of his beard. "It's wonderful to see you, Gandalf."

"I haven't had time to call. Busy, you know."

"Oh? What have you gotten your hands in now?"

"The usual. A Dark Lord once thought vanquished has returned. He left behind a chunk of his life force in a nigh indestructible artifact that attempts to corrupt whoever beholds it—hax like you wouldn't believe."

Dumbledore chuckled. "I think I can. In fact, our situations sound about the same."

Gandalf raised an eyebrow in disbelief.

"I mean it," said Dumbledore. "Right down to the soul-splitting. How many horcruxes did your Dark Lord make?"

"One, obviously. You'd have to be mad to make more that, and if you weren't already, you'd definitely be by the—"

Dumbledore sighed. Loudly.

"Your kidding," said Gandalf, impressed despite himself. "How many did yours make?"

"Seven."

Gandalf blinked. "Thats...wow."

"Not my reaction," said Dumbledore dryly.

"Seven horcruxes. That's just...that is absolutely insane. That shouldn't even be possible."

"And he's still lucid."

Gandalf was floored. "Lucid?!"

"I know. Toss in an inept police force, add some terrorism, violently mix, and you've got a good grasp of what I'm up against."

"And I thought the hobbits were bad," said Gandalf, shaking his in sympathy.

"Hobbits?"

"Whiny little snots, and useless in a fight. Half the height of a man with three times the appetite. Just my luck to have four of them out of nine companions."

"Three times?" asked Dumbledore, happy to get his thoughts off Voldemort. "How do you handle all the extra food?"

"Officially, they're on rations. Unofficially, I have a metric ton of hardtack and bacon in a bag of holding."

With a small laugh, Dumbledore pulled a small bottle of fire-whiskey from a desk draw. He conjured a tumbler, poured a fifth of the amber liquid, and settled back into his chair. It was always a treat speaking with Gandalf; a man who's life, power, and troubles so closely mimicked his own.

* * *

Power Breach

"And that's why I turned her hamster into a carrot. I didn't know Jamie would eat it! It all happened so fast."

Dumbledore leaned back, relieved. When he first caught wind of the tragic accident, he feared the worst: that young Bobby had gone from innocent pranker to something...darker.

"Calm yourself, dear boy. Accidents happen all the time."

Bobby's shoulders sagged, free from tension. He nodded weakly and stood to leave. "Thank you, Headmaster. No one believed me when I told them. I thought...well, thank you, sir. It won't happen again."

"I'm sure you'll be careful, but before you go..." Dumbledore leaned forward, eyes suddenly twinkling. "Is there anything you'd like to tell me?"

Bobby stared into the headmaster's twinkling gaze, transfixed. "...I-I have a crush on Sophie."

"Ah, to be young. Off you go, then."

Bobby walked out of the office, paused, shook his head, then continued on.

Dumbledore watched Bobby go, once again thanking the crafter of his favorite spell. Projecting comfort, confidence, and trust like a small sun was quite the advantage, and when you were headmaster of a castle filled with magical, hormonal teens, one took every advantage possible.

-oOo-

Sarah Wilkins was only a first year, but she held on like a crab. A surprising quality in one so slight.

"Gimme the the book, twerp!" grunted another, older girl. "Halfbloods like you don't deserve—"

"Ahem."

Sarah and the girl turned, then froze.

Albus Dumbledore smiled kindly at them, eyes twinkling. "It warms my heart to see such kindness, Marjorie."

Marjorie, the would-be bully, blushed and paled in quick succession.

"Most considerate," he continued, "Helping young Sarah with her History lessons. She's been having such trouble with them." He looked over his glasses, eyes twinkling all the more. "She'll probably need your help all this week."

Marjorie gulped and nodded, looking everywhere but at the headmaster. She was already thinking of where to cram in an extra study schedule.

Sarah shyly smiled up at Dumbledore, having to squint a bit at his surprisingly bright eyes.

-oOo-

The headmaster wearily sat at his desk. It'd been a long day, and he reluctantly pulled out a minutes report from yesterday's Wizengamot session.

He was seven sentences in before it hit him.

He'd forgotten to light a candle. He was reading in the dark, solely by the light of his twinkling eyes.

-oOo-

As McGonagall sipped from her goblet, she occasionally glanced at the headmaster. His fashion sensibilities had finally hit rock bottom, it seemed. He was wearing dark, wraparound sunglasses.

Dumbledore caught her glance and smiled knowingly at her, eyes twinkling like...

She coughed, and hastily wiped away the small trickle of wine dribbling down her chin. She could see brief flashes of light behind Dumbledore's sunglasses, despite the obscenely thick lenses.

The headmaster seemed not to notice. He stood and clinked his glass, drawing the hall's attention.

"Good evening," he said, "And to our new first years: Welcome to Hogwarts." He smiled gently, and a particularly strong burst of light flashed behind his glasses, shining around the edges.

Dumbledore paused, noting how the students closest to him were shielding their eyes. Had someone been fiddling with the candle lights? He surreptitiously flicked a finger, lowering the hall's candle flames.

If anything, the student's were shielding their eyes all the more, now even those near the back. The headmaster waved his wand, casting a a wide-area _finite incantatem, _but the brightness continued to grow. Panic was breaking out. Some of the students were taking refuge under the tables, using their robes to block out the light.

"Albus!" shouted McGonagall, "Stop this immediately!"

Dumbledore turned to her, flustered as he'd been in years. "I assure you, Minerva, I've nothing to do with—"

Everyone watched in horror as their beloved headmaster limply fell into his chair. His shoulders started hunching up, growing more and more tense until, with a shout and jerk of the head, his sunglasses shook free.

Twin beams of white light lanced from his eyes, scoring deep gouges into the ceiling. Students screamed and scrambled as chunks of masonry fell.

Dumbledore's twinkle had gone supernova.


	5. Changing Minds

This was the day, thought Vernon. The day he started to recoup the loss on raising his nephew. The boy had just turned seven, and from now on, one way or another, he'd earn his keep.

Vernon sat at the kitchen table, finishing the last of his tea. Lunch could have been better—it always could with his wife's cooking, but that might change. He'd have the boy help her from now on, maybe even take over completely, once he'd been trained up. One of many possibilities.

Next to him, Petunia shifted. She'd been uneasy since he'd pitched the idea.

"Vernon, about Harry—"

"Now now, Pet. A man's got to earn his way in the world, and the Dursley home is run no different."

"But—"

He gave her cheek a gentle pat. "My house, love. My rules." He turned away from her. "BOY! IN HERE, NOW!"

A moment later Harry entered the kitchen. Vernon frowned. A strip of black cloth was wrapped around Harry's head, covering his eyes.

"The deuce are you wearing?" asked Vernon. "What is that?"

Harry's shoulders slumped. "I'm sorry. Aunt Petunia asked me to."

Vernon faced Petunia. "Pet? What on earth—"

To his growing bafflement, Petunia sniffed, wiped her eyes once, then quick-marched out of the kitchen.

"Oh, for the love of..." Vernon shook his head. Women. "Come here, boy. I've got something to tell you."

Harry stepped closer and Vernon pulled the cloth—one of Petunia's handkerchiefs, he recognized—from his head. Vernon Dursley looked into Harry morose eyes—green, limpid pools of quiet grief—and felt the kitchen fade away.

He was a strapping young man again, back before he'd fractured his spine on the quad and racked up up hundreds of pounds from inactivity. There he was, on that same quad, on that same fateful day. But look! He made the catch! He dodged the sack! He jinked and feinted down the whole length of field! Touchdown! And there was Susie Thatcher, the cheerleader, the girl of his dreams, giving him a victory kiss.

He was at the Grunning's factory, speaking with the district manager. He needed time off. There were complications with the pregnancy and his wife needed him at home. Just two weeks leave, sir. That's not good enough, sir. I'm sorry, sir. He laid his letter of resignation on the desk, walked out of Grunning's, and never looked back.

He was old now. He and Susie had run a Bread and Breakfast for twenty years. Dudley was oversees on a sports scholarship, the spitting image of his old man. Vernon breathed deep, taking in the smell of fresh baked bread and dried lavender. He'd been content, right down to his bones, for many years now.

In the eyes of a boy he thought he hated, Vernon saw what could have been. He shivered and looked around. Gone was the cottage kitchen and Susie Thatcher. He was back in the kitchen of Privett Drive.

A small hand was laid on his arm. He looked down and saw his nephew's eyes. Vernon held his breath and waited, dreading and hoping for it to happen again. When the visions didn't come, he was unsure whether to weep or rejoice.

"Uncle? Are you okay?"

Vernon wiped at his eyes, surprised to see the tears that came away. "Ruddy bug flew in my eye," he said, thrusting the black handkerchief back into Harry's hands. "Here."

Harry tied the cloth around his his eyes. He left the kitchen with measured, hesitant steps.

Vernon looked around the kitchen. The appliances were two years old. They'd have to be replaced soon, if he wanted to keep up with the family next door. Petunia wouldn't have it any other way. He ran a finger over the kitchen tabletop. Marble. Seven hundred quid.

He thought of the Bed and Breakfast that he had—rather, that he could have had—with it's cheap, well-worn wooden table. He angrily swept away his teacup, uncaring as it broke against the far wall.

The kitchen door opened. Petunia came in and sat next to him, ignoring the fragments of china crunching underfoot. For a while they sat in silence. Outside, barely heard, a songbird sang a lilting, tentative tune.

She gently laid a hand on his shoulder. "Vernon?"

He looked at her her. He loved his wife. Of course he loved her. But over Petunia's shoulder, like a half-remembered dream, he imagined the smiling face of Susie Thatcher. Not as she was in school, young and beautiful, but as he'd been shown. Old, but no less beautiful, comfortably wrapped in age-earned dignity.

Vernon blinked and took a breath. "I'm fine, Pet. Just fine."

She left her hand where it was. "Did he...do anything?"

He nodded a small, jerky nod. "Did your sister ever..."

"Lily? No. Not like that." She glanced at the smashed teacup remains. "Did you see anything?"

"...Nothing important."

They listened to the bird outside. Filtered through the window glass, it's song was muffled and flat.

"Did you tell him," asked Petunia, "That thing you were talking about?"

That's right, remembered Vernon. Recouping his loss...on a seven-year-old. His kin. He wondered what Susie would think of that, and felt suddenly ill.

"I changed my mind."

-oOo-

A/N:

Not exactly sure what's going on here. Flashback/parallel dimension/temporal manipulation/illusions?


	6. Boiling Blood

When Harry Potter was born, there was no trumpeting, no fanfare, no signal of the greatness carried within his genes. Such signs would only begin to manifest around his ninth birthday, when the blood of his great-great-great-great-great-great grandfather, Godric Gryffindor, began to boil in his veins.

-oOo-

It had been some years since Vernon had needed to go inside the backyard shed. Yard work had been Harry's job since he'd turned eight.

Thoughts of his nephew caused Vernon to frown; Harry had been acting downright queer these last few months, even for...his kind. The boy had started calling him "Lord Dursley", or just "M'Lord", for starters. Not that Vernon minded; about time someone showed him the respect he deserved.

The boy had started talking funny, too. Sort of like those old period dramas Petunia was so fond of. Honestly, the slang kid's used these days.

He put thoughts of his nephew away as he approached the shed. Freaks would freak, he supposed, pulling open the door. Nothing for it but to give him lots and lots of old-fashioned hard—

Vernon's thoughts screeched to halt at the sight that greeted him. Not only were his tools expertly polished and sorted, but a contraption sat against the far wall, it's copper body and twisting pipework gleaming in the low light. In front of the mass of metal, lifting a small glass away from his lips, was Harry Potter, a vaguely pleased look on his face.

"The deuce is this?!" Vernon asked.

Harry turned and his face lit up. "Just in time, M'Lord! The first batch is ready for your approval."

Vernon watched, his brain trying to decode what exactly was going on here, as Harry pulled a small barrel from underneath his workbench.

"Aged only four months," Harry explained, slamming a tap into the barrel's side, "but I've high hopes for the flavor."

The boy fished a tumbler from the workbench, poured a mouthful of amber liquid, and proffered the glass to his uncle.

"I hope M'Lord finds it satisfactory."

Vernon took the glass on reflex, and was surprised to smell alcohol wafting from it.

"What's all this, then?" he asked, gesturing at the copper set-up.

"An amateur distiller, M'Lord. We discovered the local merchants lack of mead, and took immediate action."

Vernon sniffed his glass, noting the fine bouquet. "Mead?"

"A drink for the gods. A castle's Lord," Harry bowed to Vernon, "deserves no less."

Vernon took a sip, tempted by the delicious aroma titillating his nose. His eyes widened as the drink flowed over his taste buds, and he quaffed the remainder in a single gulp.

"This is good!" he exclaimed.

Harry drew a tankard from nowhere, filled it to the brim, and presented it to Vernon with a flourish.

"Then drink hearty, M'Lord! For who knows what tomorrow may bring!"

-oOo-

Petunia watched in confusion as her husband strolled into the kitchen with Harry rolling a small barrel behind him.

"Vernon?" she asked. "What's going—"

Vernon wrapped an arm around her and planted a searing kiss onto her lips.

"Pet," he said, shockingly clearly, given the amount of mead he'd drunk, "You're beautiful."

Petunia blushed. "Your drunk," she observed.

"Just a little, and about time."

"B-But the neighbors, Dear! What will they think? Oh, the gossip..."

Vernon kissed her again. "Let 'em talk."

In the next few weeks, it quickly became apparent that Vernon Dursley was the merriest drunk in the northern hemisphere. All the neighbors gossiped; half thought Vernon was flirting with the Devil, the other half thought he was twice the bloke he'd ever been. His doctor was astounded by his drop in blood pressure.

Harry Potter was glad to see his Lord and provider so happy.

-oOo-

"Give it back!" shouted Sally May.

Dudley, terror of the local playground, laughed and held the doll higher. "S'what you get," he taunted, "Bringing stupid dolls to school!"

"Tis an inglorious cur," growled a voice, "That treats a lady so."

Dudley paled and broke into a cold sweat. He turned and stared into the green chips of ice that were Harry Potter's eyes.

"H-Hey, cuz," stuttered Dudley, "I thought you were—"

Harry scowled, and Dudley somehow became even paler.

"I-I mean," the corpulent toddler dropped to his knees and held the doll out to his cousin, "Iwasjustkiddingwithherplease don'thitme!"

Harry snatched the doll away and glared at his prostrate relative. "Away with you," he growled.

And away Dudley went.

Harry turned to the little girl, Sally May, and held out the doll. "I apologize, Lady May, for the churlish actions of mine kin. T'will not happen again."

Sally took the doll and held it close. Her eyes shone with thanks and awe. After Harry bowed and left, she skipped off to find her friends, eager to tell of them of her knight in shining armor.

-oOo-

"You think you're so great, huh?"

Harry turned. Five kids were spread out behind him. He recognized the one on point, Piers Polkiss.

"I dunno what Dudley's so scared of," continued Piers, "Always leaving you alone. Well, I'm not scared of anybody!"

Harry planted his feet and crossed his arms. He knew Pierrs was a known bully, one Dudley's old crowd, and refused to show weakness to such ones.

"What business have you with me, Piers Polkiss?"

Piers marched up, pressing his face into Harry's. "The way you talk is stupid."

With that final, withering insult, Piers shoved Harry with as much strength as his nine-year-old arms could muster. Harry fell backwards onto the pavement, lightly skinning his elbows. He didn't wince in the slightest.

As Piers and his cohorts laughed, Harry rose to his feet. He didn't have time to waste here. Lady Petunia would require his assistance in preparing dinner.

"Your blow," said Harry, "is weak as an elderly scholar's."

Piers cocked his head. "Huh?"

Harry sighed. "You hit like a girl," he explained, cringing at the necessary slip into the commoner's tongue.

With a bellow of infantile fury, Piers charged. Unfortunately, he charged directly into the knuckles of his opponent's right straight, and dropped like a sack of potatoes.

Harry glared at the remaining children, spreading his arms wide in challenge.

"Come at me, dogs!" he screamed, blood pounding in his ears.

Needless to say, they did not.

-oOo-

Surrey Zoo, one and half years later...

Harry contemplated the burmese python, coiled so comfortably on a heated rock.

"Ah," he said, "How can they hope to placate such a noble beast with false comfort? Tis against nature, caging so mighty a hunter."

To Harry's surprise, the python raised it's head and fixed him with a unusually steady gaze. Then, to his greater surprise, it began to speak.

"They do not placate me, Sssnake Speaker," it hissed.

Harry should have jumped. He should have screamed. At the very least, he should have flinched. For some reason, one he couldn't quite place, but did not question, he merely drew closer.

"And yet," he pointed out, "You remain a docile captive."

The snake hissed angrily. "The humans are ever cautious. Ever cautious. I..." It slumped on it's rock, defeated, "I will die in this place."

Harry felt a red tide welling up within himself. Righteous anger surged in his heart at the injustice before him. What right had any man to cage such a creature? To break such a spirit? He spied a broom leaning against, strode to it, and weighed the heavy shaft in his grip.

No right at all.

He looked up and around, spotting a security camera. Five steps and a mighty swing left the surveillance device in shambles. Harry ignored the shouts of concerned patrons as he strode to the python's cage.

"What are you doing?" asked the snake.

"Justice," answered Harry.

He swung the broom, and reinforced glass shattered like ice.

The shouts of concerned patrons turned to screams as the python slithered out.

"And now?" it hissed.

Harry smiled wildly. "Now we run."


	7. Er'body Horcruxin'

"Some say he died," said Hagrid. "Codswallop, in my opinion."

"Why?" asked Harry.

"Well it's obvious, in'it? A wizard like that's bound to have a couple a horcruxes."

"Horcruxes?"

"Most everyone's got one," said Hagrid. "'He'd a been mad to try takin' over without a few, at least. Which reminds me..."

The half-giant slammed his shovel-like hand onto the tabletop. Harry jumped.

"...I'll be needin' one fer later."

Harry watched in befuddlement as Hagrid waggled his umbrella over the squashed remains of fly. A wisp of shadow rose from the corpse, and the groundskeeper directed it into the large, cheap ring around his finger.

"What was that?" asked Harry.

Hagrid wiped the sweat from his brow with a sleeve, then took a long swig from his tankard. "Horcrux, a'course. I'm workin' with flesh eatin' slugs later today. Can't be to careful; just look at what happened to ol' Kimminy down at the_ Dangerous Menagerie_. Fell right into a vat of 'em, the poor blighter. Didn't even bother with a horcrux. Probably thought there weren't no need."

"So they protect you?"

"Sure enough. See that fly there?" He pointed to the insect remains, and Harry nodded.

"Well," said Hagrid, "That fly had a life, an now it's in my ring, see? So the next time some critter gets the best of me, 'stead of going on 'the next great adventure', as Dumbledore likes to say, I get another chance."

"So you can live forever?" asked Harry excitedly.

"Nah. You age normal, but play your cards right, an you can avoid goin' before your time."

"That's brilliant!"

Hagrid smiled around his tankard. "In'it?"

-oOo-

A/N

I can just see the construction site signs: "Caution: You are entering a horcrux area."


	8. LOTR Time

Dumbledore's fireplace flared, and the headmaster looked up from his paperwork. Who, he wondered, could be calling at such an hour? He watched as the familiar shape of a wide-brim pointed hat formed from the flames.

"Gandalf the Grey," said Dumbledore evenly.

"It's 'the White_',_ now," Gandalf coldly corrected.

The two wizards, each top-tier spell-casters of their dimensions, gravely stared at one another. The air crackled with an indefinable flux of energy.

Dumbledore's shoulders twitched, and he steadied them through sheer force of will. Just a little longer, he thought, watching Gandalf's trembling shoulders. A burst of air sputtered through tightly clenched lips, and he redoubled his efforts. Hold it, he thought. Hold it...

The two wizards' shoulders were bobbing up and down like corks in the ocean. An alarming noise escaped from behind Gandalf's locked teeth.

Finally, neither could hold out any longer. The dams burst, and as one, the two wizards burst out laughing.

Dumbledore dabbed away tears of mirth with the tip of his beard. "It's wonderful to see you, Gandalf."

"I'm sorry I've haven't called. Busy, you know."

"Oh? What are you up to now?"

"The usual. A vanquished Dark Lord back from the hereafter. He tethered his life-force to a nigh indestructible artifact that attempts to corrupt whoever beholds it."

Dumbledore chuckled. "I can relate," he said, pulling a small bottle of fire-whiskey from his desk.

Gandalf scoffed.

"I mean it," said Dumbledore. "Right down to the soul-splitting. How many horcruxes did yours make?"

-oOo-

"Hogsmeade and the Ministry are vulnerable," said Wormtail, dabbing at his cut lip. "Dumbledore knows this. They will go to Hogwarts." He smiled a cruel, rodent-like smile. "The road is vulnerable. There will be women...and children among them."

Voldemort lifted a single, hairless eyebrow. "Then we march."

Wormtail blinked. "...Today, my lord?"

"Today."

The Dark Lord rose and made his way towards the balcony.

"My Lord!" Wormtail trailed closely behind, wringing his hands. "Even if you breach the wards, it would take thousands to take the castle."

"Tens of thousands," said Voldemort, throwing open the balcony doors.

"But my Lord, there is no such—"

"_BRAAAINS_."

The sound reverbated through Wormtail's bones like rolling thunder. He approached the railing and beheld an unholy sight. Beneath the tower, standing in ordered rows, was a veritable sea of inferi.

Voldemort raised his hands, and the creatures quieted. "A new power is rising," he said, sonorus-enhanced voice ringing clearly over the throng. "Its victory is at hand!"

"_BRAAAINS._"

"This night the land will be stained with the blood of wizards! March to Hogwarts! Leave none alive!"

Again, the inferi gave a deafening moan for cranial matter, and Voldemort added his own cry.

"To war!"

The Dark Lord watched his invincible army shamble away with a thoughtful expression. The end of the world was shuffling closer, one scraping step at a time.

"There will be no dawn," he said, half to himself, "for Hogawarts."

A single, poignant trail of urine ran down Wormtail's leg.

[Cut to crane shot of CIRITH UNGOL STAIRWAY. Pan down to HARDO, RAM, and HERMIOLLUM outside SHELAGOG'S LAIR.]

-oOo-

A/N

Sarumort, anyone? The names of HP and LOTR lend themselves surprisingly well to mashups.


End file.
